My Little Project
by draagonfly
Summary: COMPLETE The sorting hat has a few ideas about Draco's future. Sort of slash AU


(A/N - So this was pretty much just an idea that popped into my head and I wrote it. It is a bit strange, I suppose...but fun to write and interesting. Slightly twisted. Please Enjoy!)

_Prologue_

"I'm sorry, Mr Malfoy, but the sorting hat has never yet been wrong."

"I'm afraid you don't understand, _Dumbledore_," the blonde man said mockingly, "Draco can't be in Gryffindor. It is simply not possible. My entire family has been in Slytherin for centuries."

"I am aware of that, Mr Malfoy. However, you son has been sorted by the same system that has been trusted by the wizarding population of Britain for centuries; the very same system that put yourself and all of your relatives into Slytherin. We can not change the rules for specific people."

"As a school governor, I demand that you re-sort my son immediately," the man growled, a glare crossing his face that would have sent small children running, crying for their mothers.

"I'm afraid that even if all twelve of the school's governors voted for Draco to be re-sorted, it would be impossible. There are wards placed by the founders that prevent such things."

Lucius Malfoy scowled hopelessly at the old man in front of him. After a brief pause, he cried desperately, "There has to be something we can do! The poor boy is embarrassed out of his wits over the whole ordeal!"

"I'm afraid I can not sympathize with that, Mr Malfoy. There is nothing to be done. Now, unless there is something else you wish to discuss you will have to excuse me; I have some rather pressing matters to attend to."

Lucius Malfoy stormed, scowling, out of the office.

Dumbledore sighed.

_My Little Project_

_earlier that week…_

Professor McGonagall placed the tall, patched and frayed hat on top of the long, blonde locks of the boy sitting on the three-legged stool at the front of the great hall. The faded material slid down to cover the boy's eyes.

The large tear at the front of the hat opened as if to speak, but paused and closed again, changing its mind.

_"Well, young Draco, I was going to put you in Slytherin, as it's clearly where you want to be. I'm having second thoughts, however."_

"What?" The young Malfoy muttered under his breath. "Just put me in Slytherin and be done with it! This is embarrassing!"

_"Ah, young Malfoy, so easily would you fit in with the other Slytherins. But no, you are my little project. Let's see how well you do in-"_

"Gryffindor!" the hat cried aloud for the great hall to hear.

"What?" the young Malfoy heir cried, throwing the large hat onto the ground. "I'm not in Gryffindor! I can't be!"

"I'm afraid you are, Mr Malfoy," McGonagall snapped sharply but quietly, so as to prevent the students and staff from overhearing. "Now kindly join your fellow Gryffindors at your table, please."

Draco flushed pink, his eyes glowing red. "My father will hear about this," he muttered, glowering menacingly at the Deputy Headmistress.

A few of the Gryffindors clapped half-heartedly as Draco sat at the very end of the table, about five spots away from anyone else. He huffed grumpily, pulled out a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill, and began to draft a letter to his father.

o

_Draco, darling. Don't worry too much. Your father is absolutely furious about this. He will get it sorted out in no time. For now you'll just have to ignore the brats you're sharing a room with. I'll make sure you're out of there as soon as possible…I don't want you spending too much time with that nasty Weasley boy. You might catch something nasty. I've heard their family only showers once a month to conserve water._

_I shall see you at Christmas, Draco._

_Love,_

_Mummy._

Draco folded up the letter and tucked it back into the pocket of his Gryffindor robes. He had taken to a habit over the past few days of leaving his robes open and folded back, so as to hide the crest which had embroidered itself onto his all of his robes sometime during his first night in that ridiculous tower.

Draco hated everything about Gryffindor. He hated the colours…they were far too cheerful. He hated the mascot. The bloody lion…_ooh, hear his fearsome roar!_ Draco often mocked. It was nothing compared to the beautiful, sleek, cunning serpent that wound his way around the Slytherin crest.

And the people! After that bloody Potter boy had rejected him on the train, he had done everything within his power to make the boy miserable. Father had wanted him to make friends with Potter, to bring him close to the family. He thought that the alliance would be beneficial to the cause. Draco had been very angry to have had to disappoint his father.

And then there was Weasley. All of his robes had to have had at least three or four previous owners. They were tattered and patched and faded. The boy's schoolbooks were missing pages. And he ate so much food. He would sit at the Gryffindor table and shovel piles and piles of everything he could reach into the gaping hole in his face. Although this, Draco could somewhat understand. _The boy must be starved at home_, Draco thought.

Then there was Longbottom. All too many times had Draco come up to bed to find the ugly lump in _his_ bed, having forgotten which one was his own. Well, of course, Draco couldn't sleep in it after that, so he set off in search of a house elf to scourgify his bed for him. This was the reason he was always so tired, and often missed breakfast. The house elves were very good at not being seen.

Next was Dean Thomas. Draco hadn't even reached the dormitory on the first night and the mudblood had already covered the entire wall above his bed with posters of muggle sports players. Draco found it mildly disturbing that every one was male and several were shirtless, but nobody else seemed to think anything of it so he kept it to himself and simply tried not to look at them.

Seamus Finnigan was the only one of the lot that Draco could stand. This was probably mostly because the boy rarely spoke to him, and when he did it was civil simply to prevent fighting and arguments. However, the half blood wasn't too much of an idiot, and therefore Draco could stand him.

o

After a few weeks Draco began sending almost daily letters home asking why nothing had been done about his situation yet. Soon it was a weekly letter, and then every few months, and then he gave up entirely. It seemed that his father refused to tell him that there was nothing he could do. Draco could understand. If he was helpless at something like that, he wouldn't want anyone to know either. He would just pretend that he was still working at it, and hope everyone forgot.

Eventually Draco just stopped caring and started trying to be friendly with the Gryffindors. It he was going to spend the better part of seven years with them, it might as well be enjoyable, right?

He started spending some time with his roommates in the dorm. He could stand Potter now, and sometimes had full conversations with Finnigan. Dean Thomas was starting to grow on him, but of course he would never let anyone know that he enjoyed the company of a mudblood. He still couldn't stand Longbottom, but there were obvious reasons for that. As for Weasley…well, they mostly just ignored each other.

Draco often had long quidditch talks with Finnegan…or Seamus, as he had take to calling the boy lately. If Ron was ever around he often looked as if he wanted to join in but would rather avoid talking to Draco.

During flying practice one day, some Slytherin had muttered, "Mudblood," at Granger and flew up into the air, dropping a rock over her head. Potter had jumped onto his broom and flew after the boy, catching the rock a foot over her head. McGonagall had seen it and Potter had ended up on the Gryffindor quidditch team. After a few games, when the boy's knowledge of the game was more extensive, he had started to join in on the boys' quidditch talks, and soon the whole dorm had joined in, including Ron, who was careful not to address Draco directly.

The group often got into arguments with Dean about football. The boy was clearly outnumbered and lost every time, but refused to give up. By their third year, however, he had started a small collection of quidditch players in the bottom corner of his large display, which grew every time he went home for the holidays.

Soon, every gift Dean received from his roommates was a poster of some sort, and yet the boy still glowed with excitement every time he unwrapped one of the long, thin rolls.

By their forth year, the collection covered most of the wall over all of their beds, as well as the headboard and footboard of the obsessed boy's bed.

o

In fifth year, when Seamus had been arguing with the rest of the boys about where their alliances were, Draco became very confused. All of his roommates, he was sure, knew that his father was a death eater. However, they had never mentioned it to him and so didn't know which side the boy was on. Draco thought it was a good thing he didn't ask, as he realized one day while daydreaming in History of Magic, because he really didn't know anymore.

Draco had come to realize that Dean, despite his bloodlines, was just as good a wizard as he himself was. It had disturbed Draco at first, but he had come to terms with it. As for Granger, well…she was clearly the better of any of their classmates. Draco had decided that his father must have some other reason for hating mudbloods, but he had yet to figure out what it was.

One very hot night in early June of Draco's fifth year, he was lying awake in bed, curtains thrown open, pajama shirt tossed tiredly to the floor, trying to catch the non-existent breeze coming through the open window across the room. He was trying to figure out what was wrong with mudbloods. He just didn't understand. He hated being confused. He hated asking people questions, it made him feel stupid.

Draco climbed out of bed to go sit on the wide windowsill, bringing his pillow with him to lean on. After staring absently at the stars for a while he started to become frustrated. There had to be _something_ he was missing! His father didn't just do things for no reason. There _was_ a reason. Draco just had to find it. But he couldn't! He couldn't think of anything that was different between himself and Dean. He growled with frustration.

He heard someone roll out of bed and pad towards him. It was Dean.

"You ok?" he asked quietly. He sat down on the other end of the windowsill, leaning against the wall.

"What's wrong with you?" Draco asked suddenly. Although his voice was quiet to keep from waking his roommates, the confusion in it was evident. Dean squinted confusedly at him. "Why do people hate mud-…muggle-borns? I can't think of anything different between us!"

"Oh, Draco, there is no reason."

"There is. There has to be. My father doesn't do things for no reason."

"Your father probably only hates muggle-borns because that's what his parents taught him, and their parents before them. There is no reason. People just hate what they don't understand. The unknown scares them."

Draco tried to process this. This thing he'd been raised to believe, it was all based on fear? That couldn't be right…but it made sense. It was the only logical explanation. But, no…his father wasn't scared of muggle-borns…was he? Draco buried his face in his hands.

"It makes no sense."

"I know." Dean sighed quietly.

After a long pause, Draco came to a sudden realization. He looked up and his eyes met Deans sharply. "I don't want to kill you!" he said, as if in shock. "I don't want to kill Granger either, or the Creevys, or…anyone. I don't want to kill anyone! How can I become a death eater now?" Draco's eyes were wide.

"You don't have to, Draco," Dean said. "You have a choice."

"My father…he'd disown me."

"Which is more important to you, Draco? Hundreds of lives, or a relationship with your father."

Draco's jaw dropped. "But I can't…how am I supposed to make a decision like that?"

Dean sighed. "I know. It's ridiculous that anyone should ever have to make that decision." Dean said. Then his voice softened. "I wish I could bear that burden for you. But I can't."

Draco groaned. "If I've ever said anything to you…I'm…"

"Don't worry about it," Dean said quickly.

Draco sighed exasperatedly. "I have so much on my mind…" he whispered, as if he didn't want it to be heard. He thought it would make him sound weak. But it needed to be said… Draco couldn't stand to keep everything inside just then. "I won't be able to sleep for weeks."

Dean had an incredibly strong urge to reach out and stroke Draco's hair, which glowed supernaturally in the moonlight, but he fought the urge, assuming it would not be appreciated.

He scanned the ghostly pale torso of the boy, whose back was hunched over in his anguish. His stomach, chest and arms were toned but not overly ripped, probably from quidditch training. Dean's urge to stroke the glowing locks grew stronger. His fingers twitched and he finally gave into the calling and allowed his fingertips to brush lightly over Draco's hair.

At first, Draco didn't seem to notice, so Dean ran his fingers between the ethereal locks. Draco raised his head from its place buried in his arms and gave Dean a strange look, but made no move to push the boy away.

Dean slid along the windowsill, closer to Draco, so as to reach him better. His fingertips tan down the pale shoulder, across the smooth skin of a toned chest and back up into the hair. He leaned forward, bringing the pale lips closer to his own, but the blonde boy turned his head away, dropping his chin to his chest as if ashamed. He chewed the corner of his lip.

Draco's heart was racing, while time was moving agonizingly slowly. He was grateful for the help his roommate had offered, but… Draco just didn't swing that way.

"Sorry…" Dean whispered, almost inaudibly. He stood and started to cross the room, back to his bed.

"Wait," Draco whispered.

The dark figure turned back, a glint of hope in his sad eyes.

"Uh…Thanks. You helped me sort out… a lot. You may have changed my life…"

Dean smiled.

_Epilogue_

"Malfoy, Nola," Deputy Head minister Rubeus Hagrid called out the next in a long line of first years yet to be sorted.

A small, blonde girl stumbled up to the stool in front of the great hall. Nola looked up at the staff table where her mother, Professor Malfoy, gave her an encouraging wave just as the old, frayed hat slid down over her eyes.

"_Hello, Nola,_" the hat said inside the young girls mind.

"Er…hello," Nola muttered under her breath.

"_Did your father ever tell you what I said to him when he was in your position?_"

"No, he didn't."

"_Did you know that he once wanted to fight for Lord Voldemort?_"

"Yes, my daddy told me that."

"_Well, I put your father into Gryffindor, even though he wanted to be in Slytherin. I thought that maybe his fellow Gryffindors would be able to make him see that he was fighting for a terrible cause_."

"And it worked, didn't it," the girl smiled knowingly.

"**_My little project was a success._"**


End file.
